


Clark Kent Kissed Me

by RileyC



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Growing Old Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 17:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time two heroes fell in love and lived happily ever after--except that things like that can get complicated when one partner is wholly mortal and the other might live forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clark Kent Kissed Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was beta'd by BuckinghamAlice; she bears no responsibility for any errors on my part.

**“1”**

It had been one of those days that nearly cost them too much, where the margin of victory had been so narrow the only thing to celebrate was that the Justice League had held. They _were_ all still standing and would fight another day—but right at that moment all anyone had wanted was to stagger off to some sanctuary to recharge and heal their wounds. Batman had dragged Superman with him back to the Manor because, “I have a solarium.”

 

That’s how it started. They were both banged up and bleeding but Bruce ignored his own injuries as he stripped them both and maneuvered Clark into the shower. All he wanted to do was wash away the blood and dirt and Kryptonite dust that Metallo had blasted them with. Most of it was gone but Clark was still bleeding and the sight of that, of Superman’s blood, always disturbed Bruce. It was as if some profound law of the universe had been violated as surely as if the Earth stopped orbiting the Sun.

 

Hot water streamed over them as Bruce began to wash him. Soapy lather, dirt, and blood swirled together around their ankles, along with glowing green particles of that malignant rock, all of it whisked away down the drain. He had to be sure it was all gone, though, and filled his hands with more lather that he worked into Clark’s hair until every curl practically squeaked. He soaped up Clark’s chest again and watched as a deep cut closed up and vanished. This wasn’t the first time he had witnessed this phenomena but he still needed to touch, to feel how smooth and unmarked Clark’s flesh was he as ran his fingers over the spot.

 

He looked up and discovered Clark was smiling at him. Bruce glanced away from that smile, from all the warmth and affection and zeroed in on Clark’s broad chest, on a glob of soap that clung to that spectacular swell of pectoral muscle. The glob slipped then and he tracked its progress down across Clark’s chest, over rock hard abs, until it slipped along the crease between thigh and groin. Bruce tore his gaze away, perhaps too hastily because he swayed on his feet, dizzy, and would have fallen if Clark hadn’t caught him. Powerful arms encircled him and held him close for an instant. Long enough that Bruce could breathe in the clean, soapy, sandalwood and fresh air scent of him.

 

Clark lowered him to the bench and took the soap from him and knelt down to wash him. Clark washed his hair and chest. He washed Bruce’s back, and the water was still hot but Bruce shivered at the promise, the invitation he felt in every touch as Clark’s fingers danced along his spine. He arched into that touch and groaned in protest when it vanished.

 

He was abandoned for only a moment, though, as Clark began to wash a cut on his thigh. His touch was careful but Bruce still flinched and sucked in a breath as hot water and soap stung the cut. Clark gave him a look that was sad and tender and bent his head to kiss a bruised knee.

 

Fairly certain by then that it was all a spectacular, vivid hallucination, Bruce simply gave into it at that point. Head tilted against the tiles, eyes half-shut, he was to content in some dimension where hot water sprayed over them as Clark Kent pressed one soft kiss after another along Bruce’s inner thigh. He almost laughed when Clark’s hair tickled sensitive skin. He did gasp out loud as Clark’s lips and tongue traced the column of his throat before he sought out Bruce’s mouth.

 

The first time Clark Kent kissed him should have been one of the most memorable experiences of his life. It would have been except for the small detail of how, to his everlasting mortification, Bruce promptly fainted dead away.

 

Seconds later—or was it minutes?—enough awareness crept back for Bruce to register that he was lifted and carried from the shower. A soft fluffy towel briskly rubbed him dry, and someone patted his face repeatedly while a voice asked him to please open his eyes. That voice sounded worried, urgent, and Bruce did his best to respond. He thought he did manage to pry one eyelid partway open. Even that effort was too much for him, though, and he drifted off again on the sensation that he was gathered up in strong arms and whooshed through the air as that worried voice called, “Alfred! Alfred!”

 

Nothing else registered for a long time after that.

 

~*~

Lips brushed against his temple and a voice asked, “Bruce? Are you back?”

 

He blinked lazily and turned his head on the pillow to see Clark stretched out beside him and propped up on an elbow. He felt warm and comfortable—if you didn’t count some aches and soreness as he stretched. He would have wondered who dressed him in sweats and a t-shirt but the answer seemed fairly obvious as Clark sported the same attire—although his t-shirt was blue and stretched rather snugly across broad chest and shoulders. Not ready to dwell on that, or the idea of Clark borrowing his clothes, Bruce flicked his gaze away to take in the familiar furnishings of his bedroom. The curtains, he noted, had been drawn to let in a stream of late morning sunshine. The light dazzled his eyes but that was nothing to the memories that began to surge back. Soap, hot water, slick muscles, dark curls tickling his skin, soft lips caressing his own—erotic images tumbled dizzily through his mind to resolve into the reality lounging beside him. “You’re still here.”

 

Clark had been stroking his hair, long fingers buried in the strands. That touch faltered and withdrew as Clark said, “Bruce—don’t do that, not now.”

 

Mystified as to what he’d done wrong this time, Bruce shifted around to face him. “Don’t do what? Clark?” He reached to catch hold of Clark’s hand.

 

Attention focused on their clasped hands, Clark said, “You’re going to ask me to leave. You’ve already made this unilateral decision that this never happened and will never be spoken of.”

 

Bruce looked at their clasped hands too and wondered if he’d banged his head and gotten a concussion at some point because not word of that statement made any sense. “What?”

 

Clark glanced at him. “What?”

 

“I asked first.”

 

Clark breathed out a sigh that made the chandelier overhead sway. “You…don’t want me to leave?”

 

One day, Bruce vowed, he and Clark would have an important discussion where neither misunderstood the other. This was clearly not that day. Bruce sighed now; his breath barely ruffled the curl that fell across Clark’s forehead. “I observed that you were present. This was a circumstance that pleased me. I regret I lacked the foresight to have balloons, fireworks, and a marching band standing by to play _Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You_ to underscore the event.”

 

“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

 

“Hhn.” 

 

Clark leaned over him, ran a finger along the ridge of a cheekbone. “ _Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You_?”

 

Bruce hrphmed again. “It was the first thing that popped into my head.”

 

“Hmm. Even more interesting, then.” Clark smiled as if he had glimpsed something rare and elusive that he had searched for all his life. Bruce’s first instinct was to squirm away from that—he couldn’t be that—but Clark pinned him down with superhuman strength. Every ounce of it was distilled down into a kiss that brushed across his lips and immobilized him. Escape was quite impossible.

 

“It would appear you have me at your mercy.”

 

Mischief in his eyes, Clark said, “I like the sound of that.” He kissed the corner of Bruce’s mouth, an eyelid, the tip of an ear. Each touch was brief, almost tentative, as if Clark needed time to settle into this reality. Bruce could understand that and sympathize. It wasn’t every day a secret wish, one you had nearly hidden from yourself, came true like this. Clark’s hand caressed along his flank just then and clarity of thought fled for a moment. That hand slid under the gray cotton t-shirt and paused as inquisitive fingers discovered and lingered over scars. It was all Bruce could do to hold still and not twist away to hide those blatant imperfections as Clark pushed the cloth up over his stomach. Before a protest could find its way to his lips, Clark dipped down to kiss those scars as though he found them beautiful. Bruce reached down with the intent of drawing Clark away from those marks, left behind when Killer Croc slashed him across the side. Instead, his fingers wound up tangled in Clark’s hair and he could only clench and unclench them restlessly as Clark kissed and nuzzled and finally laid his cheek against Bruce’s hip, just where the corner of a gauze dressing pad peaked out.

 

This was alarming--or it should have been. All kidding aside, he truly was helpless here. There was no armor to shield him, no clever gadgets to unleash as a diversion to gain the upper hand or conceal a quick escape. Fragile things like trust and faith were his only protection and those had proved themselves unreliable too many times.

 

Clark drew back to watch him, head tilted as if uncertain how to proceed. His smile had faded around the edged and there was a guarded vulnerability in his eyes that made Bruce instantly reassess exactly who had all the power here. A handful of well-chosen words, dipped in careless vitriol, were all he needed to wound this man and score a Pyrrhic victory he didn’t even want.

 

“Bru--”

 

“Do you remember the first time you swooped down from the sky and whisked me away from danger?”

 

Clark blinked at the seeming non sequitur. “Umm…” He licked his lips and Bruce awarded himself a medal for not getting distracted. “You were trapped on an offshore oil rig that was being torn apart by a giant octopus.”

 

Bruce nodded; no escape route, miles from shore, and he hadn’t really been sure anyone had picked up his call for assistance. Not until he’d caught a glimpse of a red-and-blur blue as it hurtled down through the clouds to punch the octopus as one enormous tentacle whipped out to wrap itself around Bruce. A furious shower of blows then and Superman plunged into the icy, dark depths of the sea to drag the octopus off as the water frothed and boiled from the fury of the battle. At last, as Bruce clung to his precarious perch, Superman had burst out of the water, dripping wet as he reached for Bruce and gathered him close even as the octopus returned, arms flailing at them as it climbed onto the oil rig. The last Bruce had seen of it, the creature had still been clinging to what remained of the oil rig as Superman bore him away to safety.

 

“You don’t forget something like that,” he said.

 

“I guess you don’t.” Clark still looked uncertain. “What does--”

 

“It was one of those moments of enlightenment, Clark. All of a sudden I felt like I knew how Ganymede must have felt when Zeus carried him away to Olympus.” There, now Clark had something on him. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

 

“I’ll bet.” There was still a dubious glint in Clark’s eyes—but his smile was on its way back. “I’m not a god.”

 

“Nearest thing to.”

 

“And I don’t need a cup bearer.”

 

Bruce pushed himself up in bed, back against the headboard as he reached out to run a hand up along Clark’s arm. He paused, fingers curled around a bicep, warm silk over hard steel. “What do you need?” he asked and felt a spark of desire ignite in his belly as Clark shuddered at his touch.

 

“This.” Clark scooted up beside him, one hand curved around his neck. “I need this—you, beside me, always.”

 

Bruce nodded and shifted around until he straddled Clark’s lap. “I want you to remember this, Clark. In all the years ahead of us, in your darkest moments when it feels like all hope is lost, I want you to remember my hands on your body.” His palms skimmed across Clark’s chest, warm through the thin t-shirt, and danced along the column of his throat. His fingers caressed along Clark’s jaw and cupped his cheek. He ran his thumb along Clark’s bottom lip and gasped as Clark licked and sucked the callused pad, and white teeth nibbled with exquisite care. “Ah…” It was far harder to concentrate than he had anticipated but after a moment he felt able to proceed. “I want you to remember the feel of my mouth at your throat.” He buried his face in the crook of Clark’s neck and kissed him there, nuzzled at the frantic pulse of life that beat there. “Wherever you are, I want you to remember the man who loves you and wants you and who will stride through the fires of hell to be with you.”

 

The part of him that lurked ever ready to critique and find fault with himself did its best to insist the preceding melodrama had been too much. The hollow wraith dissolved away under the force of Clark’s wide-eyed, “Wow,” and shy smile, however. In its absence, he appeared to have few options left except to…bask.

 

He wasn’t sure he had ever basked in his life, he doubted he knew how. As Clark continued to smile up at him and run careful hands along his sides, Bruce thought he might like to try this out and see if he could get the hang of it, though.

 

“So how do we go about this?” Clark asked.

 

Bruce plucked at Clark’s t-shirt and hiked it up. One way or another, he had seen Clark naked, or nearly so, more times than he could count. Earlier, he had washed this body, touched him. That had—almost—been impersonal, perfunctory. This was different. “That’s a joke, right?”

 

Clark rubbed a thumb along Bruce’s chin. “What if it isn’t?” he said, a sultry note in his voice to match the look in his eyes.

 

To boldly go where no one had gone… Except Bruce was ninety-nine point nine percent certain some territory, at least, had been charted. “World’s greatest detective, remember?”

 

Clark quirked an eyebrow at him, sultry and playful now—and confirming Bruce’s deductions. “You think you know everything about me?”

 

“Not everything.” Bruce settled beside him, a leg thrown over his hips. He bit down on a groan as Clark turned to face him, groins pressed together, evidence undeniable now of how much they both wanted this. He tugged at the sweats Clark wore, fumbled with the drawstring and slipped his hand inside to grasp his erection, run a thumb around the crown. “I don’t know the sounds you’ll make when I put my mouth on you,” he murmured, and smiled as Clark gave him a preview of that, however, chest heaving as he pushed up into Bruce’s touch. “I don’t know what you taste like. I _umph--_ ” He gasped as Clark buried his fingers in Bruce’s hair and pulled him close for a desperate kiss, not quite so gentle now as they wrestled across the bed.

 

Bruce welcomed it. He craved the feel of that power and suspected it could prove addictive. Fingers snagged in silken curls, he pushed into Clark and deepened the kiss, indifferent to any need for oxygen and only craving the sensation of Clark’s tongue as it brushed against his own. He growled in protest when Clark drew back and reached to drag him back. Pain spasmed through him, though, and he fell back against the pillows, one hand pressed against his hip and the other against sore ribs.

 

“Bruce!” Clark loomed over him, desire damped down and concern in his eyes. He did a thing with his eyes, a sort of blink-squint Bruce knew well by now. “You’re okay,” he said, confirming he had just x-rayed Bruce. “The stitches are holding.”  He gave Bruce a shy look then, as if they hadn’t just been pawing each other with intent to gain carnal knowledge. “Your ribs are okay, I checked earlier,” he said. “Probably sore, though.”

 

“Little bit,” Bruce admitted. Hell if he intended to let sore ribs and stitches get in the way, however, he decided and reached for Clark again. “Now, where were we?”

 

“We,” with no effort at all, Clark caught hold of his grasping hands and restrained them, “were going to settle down and have a nice nap.”

 

Futile as it was, Bruce still felt the need to try and break free. “No, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t it.” He might as well try to punch out a cloud as get loose when Clark didn’t want him to. “I’m fine,” he declared. He reinforced it with a hard stare that couldn’t possibly be mistaken for a pout.

 

“No, you’re not.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

There was a long pause then while Clark looked at him, an infinity of tenderness in his eyes “I do. I don’t want anything about this to hurt you.”

 

Well…damn. Bruce looked away first, bereft of any snappy comeback to that.

 

“Rain check?” he said.

 

Clark carefully released him. “Rain check.”

 

Bruce sighed and settled back, watching as Clark straightened their clothing and the covers. “Somehow when I’ve pictured this, things played out less like a sixth grade sleepover.”

 

Clark gave him a dubious look. “I don’t know what your sixth grade sleepovers were like, Bruce, but mine didn’t include making out.”

 

“Well, Gotham is different from Kansas.” All tidy now, Bruce made a face and confessed. “Actually I never had a sleepover.” He’d never really thought he might have missed out on anything there but Clark made him wonder all of a sudden. “What were yours like? Building forts and reading comic books by flashlight, roasting s’mores in the fireplace?”

 

“Sort of.” Clark turned to face him, an expression of old hurt in his eyes. “I only went to one, at Pete Ross’ place. It was pretty good until the guys set the kitchen on fire making Jiffy Pop and Mr. Ross almost caught me putting it out. My folks decided it was probably too risky to let me do anything like that again.”

 

Bruce grasped his hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

 

Clark shook his head. “It’s okay. At the time it wasn’t always easy to understand but I always knew they only wanted me to be safe. I just wished I could be a regular boy.”

 

“So I guess your favorite fairy tale was Pinocchio?” Bruce asked as he scootched over some more.

 

Clark smiled and kissed the top of his head as Bruce settled against him. “Guess it was. What was yours?”

 

Head pillowed on Clark’s chest, Bruce closed his eyes, lulled by the steady rhythm of that indestructible heart. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

 

Clark ruffled his hair. “I won’t laugh.”

 

He would, but still… Bruce sighed and said, “Puss in Boots.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Hnn. I can feel you not laughing.”

 

“Sorry. Can I ask why?”

 

“Because he defeats the ogre with his wits, tricking him into becoming a mouse that Puss can pounce on.” He yawned massively and hooked a leg over Clark’s. “I won’t say the costume and overall _savoir-faire_ weren’t a factor, though.”

 

“I’ll bet. You know I’m picturing Batman with a plumed hat and rapier now, right?”

 

Bruce yawned again. “A plumed hat was at no point part of the costume design.”

 

“And the rapier?”

 

“I’m going to sleep now.”

 

“Okay.” Clark kissed his temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

Bruce smiled against shoulder as he drifted off to sleep.

 

===

**“2”**

 

_15 years later_

 

Veronica Vreeland ate a chunk of Satsuma orange from her salad and hungrily eyed Bruce Wayne’s sweet potato fries. He took a bite of his lobster club and nudged the plate toward her.

 

“Help yourself, Ronnie.”

 

Her fingers twitched toward the plate for an instant but then drew back. “I don’t dare.” She sighed and crunched up a walnut instead.

 

“Come on,” he pushed the plate over some more, “one won’t kill you.”

 

“Hmpf. Easy for you to say.” Veronica pointed her fork at him. “No one gossips behind your back because your boyish good looks aren’t what they used to be. A few crow’s feet and gray hairs make _you_ distinguished.” She emphasized her point with jabs of the fork. “With me, they’re always wondering how much work I’ve had done.” She waved the fork to encompass the country club dining room now.

 

Bruce glanced around the room as it bustled with luncheon activity. There was certainly a non-stop buzz of chatter but until Ronnie had started waving her fork around he hadn’t noticed any critical looks aimed their way. Perhaps he wouldn’t, though? He thought about that as he digested her comment about his own faded glory, and said, “If anyone is gossiping like that, Ronnie, it’s because they wonder what your secret is to staying so beautiful.”

 

Veronica gave him a suspicious look but finally relented. “Oh hell, why not?” She stabbed a fry with her fork and took a satisfied bite. After she had enjoyed two more, she gave Bruce an apologetic look and explained. “I heard Candace and Adrienne talking the other night at the museum fundraiser. They were comparing notes about their pool boys--”

 

“I thought Candy’s was actually her chauffer.”

 

“—and then getting all catty about how I didn’t have a hope of getting one of my own unless they took pity on me and gave me their plastic surgeon’s number.”

 

“First of all,” Bruce said, “those two have had so much work done they might as well be mannequins. And second, do you _want_ your own pool boy? Because I could probably arrange something.”

 

Green eyes narrowed at him but instead of kicking him under the table, as he fully expected, after another moment her lips twitched with a smile and in another second she was laughing. “Oh, Brucie…” She sighed and accepted his handkerchief. “Am I mess?” she asked as she dabbed at her eyes.

 

“No, you’re good. Little to the left there,” he said and pointed out a blotch of mascara that had run down her cheek.

 

She checked it in her compact, dabbed some more. “Glad somebody thinks so.”

 

“A lot of people think so, Ronnie.” She looked as beautiful to him as ever. So what if there were a few lines around her eyes and mouth or if she touched up her flame-colored hair? “Has your Count Alexi complained?”

 

A smile of delicious smugness lit up her face. “He hasn’t, no, not a whisper.”

 

“Well there you go then.” Bruce helped himself to a couple of the sweet potato fries while he had the chance. “Didn’t you already marry an Alexi, though?”

 

“You’re thinking of Dmitri, and we were only engaged for two weeks.” She eyed his sandwich covetously.  “You’re not eating all of that, are you?”

 

Bruce sighed and slid the other half onto her plate. “I guess not,” he said as Veronica picked up the sandwich and took a big, blissful bite with a look on her face that was downright orgasmic. “Was it good for you?” he asked when she had finished the last bite.

 

This time she did kick him.

 

~*~

Unbidden, Veronica’s words came back to him as Bruce got dressed in the club’s locker room. First there was the twinge through his trapezius muscle when he stretched up to take his shaving kit down from the top shelf of a cherry wood locker. Second had been a powerful pull of temptation to break his personal ban and indulge in a massage to see if that really would ease some of the all over body aches. The only reason he had established that prohibition was because he’d grown tired of coming up with stories to explain way all those scars and bruises. That was less of a consideration these days, and it wasn’t like a massage was an activity exclusive to the middle-aged male. Still, because something in him did actually wince away from that phrase—middle-aged male—he had ultimately resisted temptation and now found himself in front a mirror as he knotted his tie and avoided looking too long at the fan of fine lines around his eyes or the strands of silver (more of them every day) scattered through his hair.

 

It hadn’t even really been Ronnie’s words that set him off, but an offhand comment he’d overheard at the charity tennis match. He and Ronnie had just won their mixed doubles match against Jack Ryder and Vicki Vale and some kid around Damian’s age had called out, “Hey, dude! Good moves for a geezer!” Crudely expressed as it was, Bruce knew the boy hadn’t meant it as an insult, at that age anyone over twenty-five was elderly, and it shouldn’t have gotten under his skin—but there it was, the kid’s words, and Ronnie’s, had started a slow burn.

 

Or maybe it would be more correct, he reflected, that they had sprinkled accelerant on what had already started to smolder. Jim Gordon’s retirement from the Gotham City P.D. had been the first fiery ember, stoked by Damian’s pointed comment that it was good when someone could admit it was time to step aside.

 

Jim Gordon was sixty-five, though; Bruce was twenty years younger and most nights on patrol he was still a match for whatever Gotham threw at him. The key words, he knew, were: most nights. There were nights when the wear and tear on his body was nearly too much and he thought twice about suiting up again; nights when the thought of gracefully settling into an advisory capacity wasn’t so disagreeable. Damian was chomping at the bit to finally, officially, don the cowl. The rest of his kids, the ones he’d raised, the ones he’d trained, had proved themselves time and again. He could step away; Gotham would be in the best of hands. There would be no gala to mark his years of service like the one for Jim tonight but he was good with that, too. Neither of them had ever been in it for awards and Jim had said it felt good to finally step down and pass the reins to another generation. Bruce still struggled with that part.

 

So much for how forty-five was supposed to be the new thirty, he thought with some aggravation. He wanted to dismiss this feeling as nothing more than a cliché midlife crisis but that hadn’t proved successful as yet. He brushed back his hair, the silver suddenly so much more pronounced than the black, until a glint of gold caught his eye. He touched the simple gold band around his finger and thought about Clark—Clark who _was_ untouched by time—and suspected he may have just poured an entire can of gasoline all over those slow-burning embers.

 

A new sports car wouldn’t put it out and he had zero desire in trading Clark for a 19-year-old blonde. That didn’t appear to leave a lot of options, he realized, fixated on those silver strands in a way that began to strike him as potentially obsessive.

 

~*~

It wasn’t that Bruce had never been in a drugstore. It had been sometime, however, and he’d forgotten how brightly lit they were, as if in defiance of any shadow that dared to try and obscure some dusty corner. Nocturnal creatures were clearly not taken into consideration when these stores were designed. He could have done without the perky 1950s Muzak in the background as well. Were shoppers meant to be lulled into some belief they might round a corner and run into the Fonz buying Brylcreem? They could turn down the air conditioning a few degrees too, he thought, and then promptly sent himself a mental memo that he wasn’t slated to become a crotchety old curmudgeon for a minimum of twenty years yet.

 

He browsed the aisles for a good five minutes before he located what he wanted. A brief survey of products on display told him this errand might take awhile. Once he had eliminated shampoos and styling gels, he found the men’s hair color products and picked up boxes at random—Grecian Formula, Clairol, Just For Men. There were some specifically for beards and mustaches, and others designed to leave a touch of gray. He plucked two boxes off a shelf for a closer examination, holding one box and then the other at arm’s length and squinting. When that failed to bring the small print into focus, Bruce glanced around, confirmed no one had him under observation, and reached into his breast pocket for his reading glasses. Shampoo-in versus autostop? he wondered as he read the ingredients and instructions. And which color--dark brown, real black, or jet black?

 

“Do you need some help, sir?” The voice was young and female and Bruce tipped down his glasses to look at her. “If it helps any, my grandpa likes this one.” She tapped the shampoo-in variety with a fingernail painted like Hello Kitty. It matched the pink streaks in her hair.

 

“I’ll take this one,” he said and held up the autostop version. He had, after all, already been inclined toward that one before she informed him nine out ten grandfathers preferred the other.

 

“Okay.” Aria—so claimed her nametag—took the box and gave him a disconcertingly critical look. “You want my advice, you should go with the dark brown.”

 

“I thought the jet black.”

 

Aria pursed her lips, shook her head. “You’ll look like you used shoe polish.”

 

“Grandpa?”

 

She nodded, drama in her reply. “You would not believe.” She put the box of jet black back and selected another one. “You _really_ want my advice, though,” she gave him another once over, “you’d skip this altogether. Lot of girls like themselves a silver fox.”

 

Bruce had no idea how to reply to that and was only glad this expedition into Gotham retail had been conducted solo. There were certain events in life that required the utmost privacy and buying hair dye was definitely one of those.

 

~*~

Alfred aimed a pointed look at Bruce as he laid out that evening’s tuxedo. “Perhaps the late and unlamented Matches Malone is scheduled to make a return?”

 

Bruce glared at him and grabbed the cummerbund Alfred offered. “No.”

 

Alfred raised an eyebrow in reply.

 

Bruce glowered some more. The color looked fine, perfectly natural; Aria had steered him in the right direction. “It’s my hair, I can do what I want with it,” he grumbled. He was abruptly reminded of a long ago argument with Dick, when the boy had gone through a Mohawk phase. “Anyway,” he glanced at the older man and found he envied the grace with which Alfred accepted the passing years, “didn’t you ever think about coloring your hair?”

 

“It hardly seemed worthwhile after a certain point.” Alfred set out a selection of cufflinks and gave Bruce a long, thoughtful look. “Might one inquire after the cause of this,” his gaze lingered a moment on Bruce’s perfectly dark hair, “development?”

 

If he had learned anything at all his forty-five years, it was that keeping anything from Alfred was an exercise in futility. “It was something Ronnie said at lunch today,” he said. “About my boyish good looks not being what they were.” Stated like that, it sounded ridiculous and he didn’t blame Alfred for looking exasperated.

 

“With all due respect to Miss Vreeland, your looks never were particularly boyish, sir. And for whatever it may be worth, Bruce,” the trace of asperity vanished from Alfred’s voice, “you bear a striking resemblance to your father at the same age. I should have thought that would be a source of pride.”

 

Great, now Alfred was disappointed in him, he thought as he looked a silver-framed photo of his parents on the dresser. “It is, Alfred. It’s…” He shook his head. “I’m one year older than he was when, when--”

 

Alfred touched his shoulder and nodded. “’Time’s the king of men, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.’ None of us are promised a certain span of years, Bruce. What matters is what use we make of our time. Your father had nothing to regret on that score and neither do you.”

 

He nodded and concentrated on knotting his tie. His gaze strayed to another photo set out on the dresser, this one of himself and Clark on their honeymoon on Santorini. The sun had just begun to set, adding tints of pink and gold to all of the blue and white around them as Diana had snapped the picture. Clark really had looked like a god descended from the heaven. He still did. “He hasn’t aged a day,” Bruce murmured as he picked up the photograph. “Not since I’ve known him.”

 

“I daresay he would say the same about you, sir.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Alfred straightened a rack of books on a table. “Sir, one way we spend our time wisely is to appreciate what exists now and not hoard fears of what might come tomorrow. Even Master Clark has no promise of that.”

 

Bruce nodded slowly and put the photograph back down. “Some things should be eternal,” he said with a significant look at Alfred.

 

“Sir, we have discussed your thoughts on cloning me.”

 

“Who’s cloning Alfred?” Clark asked as he breezed in the door—almost literally.

 

“No one at this juncture.” Alfred nodded a greeting to him. “Your evening attire is laid out, Master Clark. I trust that Mr. Mxyzptlk fellow presented you with no great difficulty?”

 

“Turned most of Metropolis into talking penguins for most of the afternoon but nothing worse.”

 

“Yes, I had wondered if I’d overheard that correctly on the radio. Very good. I shall have the car waiting.”

 

Bruce nodded and watched him leave, automatically checking if Alfred’s step was any fraction slower, if he betrayed any sign of hidden pain. He could detect none and chose to take that at face value. To distract himself from inevitabilities, he said, “Talking penguins?”

 

“It was amusing for about two minutes. You okay?” Half-undressed and on his way to the bathroom, Clark paused to give him a searching look.

 

“I’m fine. Go get your shower.”

 

Clark flashed a smile that Bruce knew all too well by this point. “You could come with me,” he said as he drew Bruce to him and kissed his neck.

 

“That,” Bruce braced his hands against broad shoulders, “would entirely defeat all good intentions to arrive early.”

 

Clark nipped his ear. “We could be quick.”

 

“I don’t like being quick with you. Go on,” Bruce gave him a push, uncomfortable with the way Clark was looking at his hair. “It’s for Jim Gordon, we can’t miss this.”

 

“Okay. I’ll just be a minute,” Clark said as he stepped back. He studied Bruce again, a slight frown forming as he tried to puzzle out what bothered him before he finally disappeared into the bathroom.

 

Abruptly, Bruce remembered he had tossed the empty Just For Men box in the trash, right on top, for Clark to easily spot. Lips thinned in a grimace, he went back to fixing his tie, fingers suddenly clumsy and fumbling with the task as he listened to the shower run. The water shut off and he counted off the seconds until the door opened again and Clark stepped out, one towel wrapped around his hips and the other slung around his neck as his hair, completely untouched with silver, dripped.

 

Gaze intent on his reflection with a sudden conviction the dye job really was hideous, Bruce said, “No, Matches Malone isn’t coming back from the grave. Yes, I just felt like touching up the gray. No, I don’t want to talk about it.” The last was said somewhat defiantly.

 

Clark looked at him a long time, finally nodded, and said, “Okay.”

 

Bruce tracked him around the room as he vigorously rubbed his hair dry and began to dress. By the time Clark was fastening his suspenders, impatience had run its course and Bruce asked, “That’s it? You’re not even a little bit curious?”

 

Clark tugged a strap into place, shrugged. “You said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

 

“That’s never stopped you before.”

 

“Bruce…” He looked over at Bruce with that expression that said he was trying to discover and decipher clues. When he finally spoke, it was only to say, “I liked the silver.”

 

Bruce sighed and let his shoulder slump with it. “I felt old today, Clark. I feel old a lot of days,” he said and found an unexpected relief in the confession.

 

Clark stepped over to him and took charge of the mangled bow tie. “I know. So do I sometimes.”

 

“It’s not the same.”

 

“Maybe not.” Satisfied with the tie, Clark took a step back and reached down to clasp both of Bruce’s hands. “I wish it was. I want to grow old with you. I want gray hair and wrinkles and creaky old bones.”

 

“Mmm, you do not want creaky old bones. Trust me on that.” Bruce moved close, his head lowered to Clark’s shoulder. “We’re going to be grandfathers one of these days.”

 

“Yeah,” Clark said and Bruce could hear the smile in his voice. “It’ll be great.”

 

Bruce rubbed his cheek against Clark’s shoulder and thought about it, thought about the house full of little black haired boys and redheaded girls, maybe a blond one here or there, all of them swinging from the chandeliers and sliding down banisters. “It’ll be terrifying—but maybe kind of great.”

 

Clark ruffled his hair, kissed his ear and began to whisper something. “’And Puss lived upon the daintiest meat and most delicious cream, and was petted and made much of all the days of his life, and never again ran after mice and rats, except for exercise and amusement.’”

 

Bruce pushed back to look at him. “How do you remember that?”

 

“I remember everything you’ve ever told me.”

 

Given the nature of some of those things, back in the early days, Bruce wasn’t sure that was an entirely good thing. Still—he looked at their twined hands, the matching rings that glinted in the lamplight—they had come a considerable way since then. Maybe that’s what those silver strands were, mile markers of a life.

 

“Do you still feel like Pinocchio sometimes?”

 

Clark laughed, kissing him. “Nope. The Blue Fairy granted all my wishes a long time ago.”

 

His too, Bruce thought, even if he’d never whispered them out loud. Clark Kent had kissed him; nothing could be the same after that.

 

===

_Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,_  
 _Say I’m growing old, but add,_  
 _Clark Kent kissed me._

(With the most sincere apologies to Leigh Hunt.)

**Author's Note:**

> The lines Alfred quotes -- Time's the king of men,  
> He's both their parent, and he is their grave,  
> And gives them what he will, not what they crave.  
> \-- are from "Pericles, Prince of Tyre," by William Shakespeare.
> 
> The actual poem by Leigh Hunt runs:
> 
> Jenny kissed me when we met,  
> Jumping from the chair she sat in;  
> Time, you thief, who love to get  
> Sweets into your list, put that in!  
> Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,  
> Say that health and wealth have missed me,  
> Say I'm growing old, but add,  
> Jenny kissed me.


End file.
